


Psychic for Hire

by littleoptimistme



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: BAMF Shane Madej, Crime Bosses, Demon Shane Madej, F/M, Fake Psychic, Friendship, Gen, LA psychics, Mind Reader, Other, Palm Reading, Research, Shane is a psychic for hire, author Ryan, conman, gypsies, mob, ryan and Shane are best friends, ryan writes horror supernatural fiction, shane is a conman who doesn't believe in the supernatural, shane refuses to believe in the supernatural, sort of demon it’s complicated, to the point of blatant stupidity tbh, until SomEthIng happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23825065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleoptimistme/pseuds/littleoptimistme
Summary: Shane is a psychic for hire working in LA, and sure, he’s a fake, but at least he's telling people what they need to hear! That is, he thought he was fake. But after a strange accident, he begins to have the oddest dreams... Meanwhile his old friend Ryan is researching his next greatest supernatural horror novel in the underbelly of the LA psychic scene and wondering how on earth you convince someone they actually might be psychic for real?
Relationships: Ryan Bergara & Shane Madej
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

“He says… Well, it’s difficult to make out. Something like Jay? Jake? Jack?”

The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. Her hair hung in thick, dry tufts on her white blouse, unnaturally red. She was a forty-five-year-old divorcee who wore several rings. Her ear piercings were stretched out like taffy, weighed down by gaudy diamond-shaped earrings. Her voice trembled. “ _Jayson_? That’s my- that’s my son! How could you-”

He screwed his eyes shut. “-he wants to tell you he’s... alright. He’s not in any pain. And-and to not worry about…” He opened his eyes and peered at her quizzically. “The game?”

Ms. Snyder wiped her eyes, and he handed her a tissue that was conveniently on hand. She dabbed away, careful to keep from smearing her eyeliner. “I-I missed his last baseball game. And then when he didn’t come home, gosh... what kind of mother doesn’t go to their kids' baseball game...”

“Hey.” He caught her shaking hands and laid them in her lap as gently as he could. Her skin was soft and manicured, the lines in her palms deep. “He forgives you. Do you hear me? He loves you and he knows how much you love him.”

Her lip trembled. A watery sort of smile attempted to find room amid the trembling, and she gave a little embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d get so emotional.”

“It’s alright. Of course, you would. He’s your son.”

She nodded once, and again. A deep breath. “Thank you, Mr. Madej. I needed to hear that.”

Shane patted her hand and closed up the notebook he’d had out. It was covered in nonsense scribbles from a small pencil he held in his hand. “Ah,” He waved his hand, “Call me Shane.”

Ms. Snyder sniffed and smiled. “Well, thank you, Shane. That was… astonishing. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure- I just needed _something._ Some-”

“Closure?” he offered up.

She nodded. “How much do I owe you?”

Shane smiled and took out his cellphone, credit card slider already embedded in the charging port. He named his price and she swiped her card.

As she stood up, straightening her clothes, she took another steadying breath. And then quietly, almost to herself. “Goodness…”

Shane stood and led her to the office door.

He conducted sessions in a small portion of his house closed off by glass doors and windows. He called it his office. It was painted in calming shades of white and brown. Very ‘live, laugh, love’. It might have been used as a parlor or a piano room if anyone else had lived there. There was an abstract painting against the back wall that resembled a beach, and fake reeds sprouted from a tall skinny vase in the corner. There was a coffee table between two armchairs and a couch. It could either have been a nice waiting room or a therapist’s office if not for the red neon sign through the blinds in the street facing window. **_PSYCHIC_ **

Shane opened the glass door and walked her to the front door of his home. “It was wonderful to meet you, Ms. Snyder. If you ever need anything else, you call me?” He pointed at his business card in her hand.

Ms. Snyder nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“And,” He lowered his voice, although of course there was no one else to hear. “Be careful. I know you live a bit of a distance. If you do ever decide to visit another, ah, advisor, I would highly recommend keeping to the list of recommendations I have on my website. They are good people. But there are a lot of not-so-nice people in LA.”

Ms. Snyer blinked at him, almost surprised, and she relaxed even further. There. If there had been any reservation left, she had abandoned it. She trusted him. He had her. “Oh, I’m aware. Thank you. I appreciate the honesty. Your… your gift is incredible.”

Shane smiled, lips tucked in. “It is what it is. And you are very welcome. Now have a-”

There was a knock on the door, just as Shane reached to open it for Ms. Snyder.

He paused, confused. He didn’t have any more appointments today.

Ms. Snyder made a small noise. “Oh dear, I don’t mean to keep you.”

“I don’t think it’s another client,” Shane said, brow furrowed. “Could be an old friend of mine, but he’s not due to get here until tonight.” Shrugging, he opened the door.

Shane was correct. It was Ryan.

Standing on the bottom step, tapping on his phone, stood a young man Shane remembered well, although he had not seen him since, what, graduation? He was older, of course, than Shane remembered. More of substantial weight to him (not that Shane was saying he was fat, cause he wasn’t. Ryan just looked… grown-up. Solid. A man now, not the gangly kid he used to be). But Ryan stood in the same, slightly nervous way, bouncing on his heels.

Ryan looked up. “Shane! God, are you _taller_?”

Wonderful. “Nice to see you too. Ryan, this is Ms. Snyder. Ms. Snyder, Ryan. We were roommates in college. Ms. Snyder is a client of mine.”

Ms. Snyder cocked her head, clearly interested, and shook Ryan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you! What brings you to town?”

Ryan opened his mouth. “Actually, I’m writing a-”

That was far enough. “Here, Ryan, why don’t you come inside? Ms. Snyder, until next time?”

“Oh, yes!” She shouldered her purse. “Most definitely. I’ll leave you two to catch up!” With that, she clickety-clacked in her heels to an inordinately fancy car and drove away down the street of the average, nice, modern neighborhood Shane lived in.

Ryan, joining him on the porch, watched her go. They squinted out into the bright California sun.

There was a beat of silence which Shane didn’t try to break, hands in his pockets.

“Dang.” Ryan finally spoke. “Got her wrapped around your finger. What’d you do, tell her she’s gonna win the lottery?”

Shane hummed. “I told her her son forgives her for staying home with a hangover instead of going to his baseball game the day that he died in a car accident.” He picked at the stitching in the neckline of his sweater.

Ryan blinked. “Holy frick, dude.”

“In nicer words, obviously.” He looked down at him. “I thought you weren’t supposed to get here until tonight.”

“Sorry. I’m a fast driver and then I didn’t see the point in hanging out in an empty hotel for hours.”

Another non-committal hum. And then Shane shrugged. “Okay. Cool. Do you want lunch? I haven't eaten yet and there’s a Cuca’s nearby that is frankly divine.”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah! Sure.”

It was odd, how very natural it felt to talk to him. It was like it was just last week they’d been sitting on the floor grumbling through papers they should have written days earlier. And yet here was this distance, years of time spent only occasionally interacting through Facebook likes and Instagram comments.

“Let me grab my wallet.” Shane ducked back in the house, and Ryan trailed in after him. He busied himself searching for his wallet in the kitchen drawers, and pretended he didn’t notice Ryan blatantly snooping, eyes wide.

He popped his head into the kitchen, Shane’s ‘office’, the bathroom, the living room. It was only when he started to knock over one of the fake plants that Shane gave him a look, wallet, and keys in hand.

Ryan stood the plant back up. “Sorry. Just, this is… a really nice house.”

Shane gave him a closed smile. “Thank you.”

“No, but like, _really nice._ Like, how the heck do you afford this?” Most people might be embarrassed to ask a question like that. Ryan wasn’t and Shane wasn’t offended.

He got this question a lot actually. There was an idea people had in their minds of what a psychic was supposed to be. Creepy little offices in a run-down track mall next to a nail salon that doubled in sex trafficking, or a creepy booth at a carnival with crystals and incense and blah, blah, blah. Shane’s business wasn’t like that. He was clean and shaved and dressed in a brown sweater and he let his clients drink from his Starbucks espresso machine while he told them what they needed to hear. The less he was associated with thieves and liars, the better.

He shrugged. They walked outside, down the steps, and simultaneously got into Shane’s car. “You get in with the right people, the right customers, being a psychic brings in the big bucks. Besides, LA is superstitious as hell.” Shockingly so, Shane thought sometimes. It blew his mind how many hundreds and hundreds of dollars people were willing to give up to hear him spout off some nonsense.

And that’s what it was, of course.

They sat in a red leather booth at the restaurant and the plastic fabric protested loudly as they slid inside. It was past the lunch rush and the place was relatively empty, decorated with colorful paintings of wild animals, sculls, Christmas lights, the distant sound of Spanish radio, banging pots, and the rapid-fire speech of an employee in the kitchen. The food would be delicious, as it always was.

Usually, Shane could hardly wait.

But there was a pit in his stomach, a deep sort of twist that kept him stiff and ready to stand. Was he nervous? Was that what it was? But Ryan didn’t make him nervous. In fact, Ryan only increased exponentially Shane’s ability to be _the calm one_ in comparison to Ryan.

Ryan dipped a chip in salsa and raised an eyebrow.

“So it is then? Just-, just you know, fake.”

Shane looked at him for a long moment, contemplating whether or not he was actually posing a serious question. “I mean, yeah. What else- you seriously think I can talk to dead people? I see the future? I look into the oogly-googly beyond and-”

“Well, fine, not _you_ specifically!” 

Shane chuckled. “It's fake, Ryan. I've seen it all. It's all fake.”

Ryan thought about this. He didn’t seem particularly enthused, which Shane would have expected. But Shane wasn’t going to lie to him. There wasn’t any reason to sugar coat it.

Ryan’s voice was quiet. “Last time I talked to you, you wanted to be a magician.”

“Last time we talked I was a dumbass. You can’t make money in LA as a magician. Well, you can. I just didn’t.”

Ryan stirred a chip, ate it, and chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his lip. “So that’s it then? You’re a con-man.”

Shane sat back. He didn’t invite Ryan to stay with him just to be judged. “Says the ‘true paranormal sightings’ author!”

“First of all, I write _fiction_ based on fact, which is not conning."Ryan wrinkled his nose. "It’s just entertainment and research. You are actively lying to people.”

That hurt. A lot. He didn’t need this and on top of that, Shane honestly disagreed. Yes, he was lying to them constantly, but Shane didn’t hurt them! He was telling people what they needed to hear! He gave them closure when there was no other place to turn. And yeah, so the psychic part was rubbish, but it worked! It worked for his clients, and it gave him enough money to own a nice home and a car and gave him the option to eat out twice a week if he felt like it. “It’s better they come to me than to some tiny hovel where some witch will tell them they have to live on butter if they want to survive through the next year. Or worse, make them come back for a reading over and over until they're bankrupt just because they’re grieving and hardly in their right mind.”

Ryan paused at this. “People really do that?”

“Yeah! Happens all the time. And stuff like the stupid butter thing! Made local news. ‘Lady Eats Nothing But Butter to Avoid Death’. She didn’t die but she got super sick.”

Their food came and they took it mutely, neither looking at each other in the eye. Maybe things weren’t quite like how they used to be. Or maybe they were always this way when it came to this subject; a little tense, ever since Ryan told him he honest to god believed in ghosts, all the way back in sophomore year of university. Shane had reacted… less than ideally, he’d admit. It wasn’t his place to judge people, and he was far better at that now than he was at eighteen, but he just couldn't compute how otherwise perfectly sane people could believe in such ridiculous things. Unless they’d been tricked, of course. And he’d rather it be a nice trick, if it came to that, than an evil one.

Shane sighed. “Look, I don’t want to argue about this. _You_ emailed _me_ , remember? I’ll let you see what it's like to be a ‘real life psychic’ or whatever. But I’m not going to play pretend with you. You’re not a client and you can do whatever you want to make yourself happy, but this is just how the world works.”

The knot in Shane’s stomach wound tighter, and he couldn’t imagine eating. He wasn’t hungry anymore. There was something in the air that pulled at his skin, tugging him, making his entire body feel tight and fragile and horrible. His stomach felt sick all of the sudden, and he set his fork down with a rattle of metal on porcelain.

He must have eaten something weird.

“You alright, big guy?”

He hummed. His head buzzed. He took a sip of water. “Yes. Sorry. I started feeling sick for a second there. It’s a little better now.”

Ryan’s face relaxed from indignance into concern. “Shit, dude. Did you ea s.”

Ryan was not put out by the shortcut meal. Shane paid for them both quickly, before Ryan could object, and they took their to-go boxes into the car, setting them on the sun-warmed dashboard. The feeling didn’t go away, even as they eased onto the main road and took a left toward Shane’s house.

“I’ll drive,” Ryan offered. He kept side eyeing Shane. “You look really pale. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Shane didn’t answer, too busy trying to not throw up. This was the _worst_ timing. “I’m fine! It’s fine. Just drive!”

“If we need to pull over-”

“Look at the road, Ryan!” Shane’s stomach lurched again. He rolled down the window frantically as the buzzing in his head became so loud he could hear nothing else.

Then it happened.

He remembered it later in bits and pieces, everything in slow motion. Ryan, mouth open, a hand stretched toward him, looking at Shane, and more importantly, not looking at the truck that barreled toward them. The tacos flew in the air, cheese, and lettuce like dust in a light beam. Shane saw it all in his side mirror, his head out the window. He wasn’t fast enough to pull back inside.

With shocking strength, the truck plowed into the front of the car. Something burned down Shane's legs and then he was flying. There was the sky, the ground, the sky.

The ground.

He woke up to the sound of an ambulance and the smell of vomit. Above him, sunlight trickled through layers of green leaves.

His brain felt like it was stuffed with sand. He struggled to move and found he could, but a hand pushed his shoulder into the ground. Ryan, above him. He was bleeding from a nick on the shoulder, but otherwise looked alright. He was shaking, eyes wide and red. This was gonna traumatize him forever, poor thing. Ryan was so sensitive when it came to danger. He didn’t mesh well with it...

“Can you hear me? Shane? Jeez, Shane, you’re bleeding-”

“S’okay.” Shane managed. He didn’t feel like anything was broken. He tried to wiggle his fingers and toes. They wiggled just fine. He blinked a few times. His whole body hurt. How did he get out of the car? Something in his brain wasn’t lining up, and he couldn’t quite figure out the missing piece that brought him onto the sidewalk in this idyllic, old neighborhood. The light was too bright, the colors too loud. The siren wailed. Shane tried to sit up again. It wasn’t that bad. He was okay. “Why’d you call an ambulance?”

Ryan made some reply in a high pitched shriek that Shane couldn’t understand. There was the siren again. People stood around him now, telling him to stay still, to not move. Why were they being so uptight? He didn’t even feel that awful. They didn’t need to make a whole dumb fuss. Shane remembered glimpses of the ambulance and the people poking and prodding him. 

He was tired. He should sleep. Shane closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the sound was gone. 

The world was tangibly silent, unlike anything Shane had ever experienced. It felt like noise had never existed in the first place, like he was in space, free-floating in the nothingness of eternity. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat. He sat up. Moving through the air felt like moving through thick, thick water. His arms trembled to keep him upright. The ambulance either moved so quietly and smoothly he didn’t notice it, or they’d stopped. Everything was slippery to the eye. He couldn’t see enough at once.

The light was a dull, fluorescent sort of blue, even though he remembered the sunlight from outside ought to shine inside. He should be frightened also, but Shane wasn’t. A dead calm lay over him like a thick blanket. Even if he wanted to, Shane didn’t think he could summon any kind of reaction. Moving was hard enough, and it was like whatever was pressing in on him, pressed _inside_ him as well.

It took longer than it ought to have to notice the people lining the walls of the ambulance. A pregnant woman. A young boy. A very old man. There were several more unfamiliar people around the room, seemingly random paraphernalia, all staring at him stanchly. Something was very wrong about them, and Shane didn’t know what it was. He tried to open his mouth and break the god-awful silence, but when he spoke, there were no words. This didn’t surprise him, to be honest. The pressure only increased, begging him to lie flat once more.

After a long moment, Shane gave in and his arms buckled. He slammed into the pallet he’d been placed in. The pressure surged, pressing him deeper and deeper into the plastic. He could feel it stretching under him, his ribs creaking. It was going to push him right through the pallet, Shane realized. He screamed silently, terror rushing back to him as the pressure finally forced him into the pallet. He watched the plastic melt around his arms, his body, his neck, his face.

He couldn’t see.

It was only then he realized what was wrong with all of the people in the ambulance.

Their heads were on backward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do want to mention that I am basing some of the basic concepts in this au on the TV show ShutEye. its a good show and yall should watch it. Also, there is quite a bit of language in this, fair warning. That said, enjoy the chapter :))

Sometimes you’ve got to just be like, ‘well, okay, this is how today is gonna be.’ Ryan dropped his fifth quarter into the vending machine and blinked, long and slow at the options. He got lost for a second, his eyes focused on the reflection of ceiling lights and the waverly look of his own face in the glass. He had a bruise just beneath his left cheek, (coffee cup, he was pretty sure), and a cut on his upper arm.  _ Pick a snack,  _ he ordered. His arm lifted up and tapped in the numbers.

Chips, a slim jim. They clunked at the bottom and Ryan wandered toward room 247 A, where Shane lay sleeping. Ryan felt an odd sort of calm. He should be freaking out, but he’d gone beyond that and now he floated in this haze while he waited for Shane to wake up.

The hospital room had vertical fabric blinds that let in a dirty evening light. When Ryan entered, Shane was sitting up in bed, gingerly poking at the small bandage over his left eyebrow. He’d been smacked pretty hard. Scary, hard. Ryan had never seen someone that pale before. They were lucky. His chest shuttered.

“Hey, big guy, you’re awake.”  
Shane blinked at him, no trace of confusion in his eyes. He knew exactly where he was. Which was very typical of him, to be honest. He relaxed into a smile, apparently unperturbed by the whole situation. “You totaled my car. It’s like college all over again.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan threw the slim jim at him. “Don’t stick your head out the window like a dog.”

“I was throwing up. Christ, my head hurts. Am I okay? I feel okay?”

Ryan nodded. “You flew out the window, so everyone is super shocked that you are. They think you probably have a concussion, though, which sucks. You’re supposed to rest or whatever. They’ll probably be in here in a few minutes.”

And they were. A few more hours of pandering around, being poked, asking and answering questions, and getting prescriptions, and then, remarkably, they were on their way out. It was… wild. He’d been so scared, and now here they were, catching an Uber.

“I wonder what happened to the people who hit us.” Ryan mused as they watched the animated Uber car on his phone get closer and then miss them entirely.

Shane huffed. “He’s fine. Won't try to change his shirt while driving again, I’m guessing. Don’t worry about it.”

Ryan glanced up. “You don’t even-”

“Is that our guy? I think I see it. Purple Toyota? Purple Toyota, baby!”

The night slipped into a darker, deeper purple as they arrived at Shane’s suburban fever dream of a house. The brightest light by far was Shane’s neon  _ PSYCHIC _ sign on the front window. Ryan found himself staring at it as they climbed out of the Uber, saying their goodbyes.

He wasn’t sure this was such a good idea anymore.

He had four months to come up with the first draft of a novel about the LA psychics, according to his publishers. Ryan was thinking about some kind of mix of Dead Zone and the celebrity lifestyle… if that was possible. It made sense to stay with Shane, do research the way he always did. Part of his angle was always the real-life research he did before writing anything. He wanted to give people as much truth as he possibly could. Shane was his best friend (or  _ was _ , ten years ago) and Shane was a professional psychic. It would be stupid to pass up an opportunity like it. This was a strange thing for Shane to be, of course. Ryan remembered first hearing about Shane’s job through a mutual friend and he’d laughed and told them they were confused. Shane, a psychic? Shane was goddamn Doubting Thomas reincarnate.

It made sense, now that Ryan was here, talking to him. Shane wanted to be a therapist in school, but he had to quit midway through after… something. Ryan couldn’t remember what had happened exactly. Shane had told him they couldn’t room together next semester, and just like that, he disappeared off the face of the earth. Ryan got the impression any questions about this were very off-limits, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. The point was, the way he explained it, Shane managed to find a way to be a therapist without technically having a license.

It didn’t make him any less of a con artist, obviously, and it put an honest horrible taste in Ryan’s mouth. He’d rather not know about any of it than have to recalibrate who he thought his friend was. He couldn’t tell any of this to Shane. And he needed the room. Not to mention, it  _ was _ going to be great for his book. What better insight to this side of LA then through the eyes of someone who knew all the tricks. Then, Ryan could find the  _ real _ ones, couldn’t he? Or, he could try.

Shane unlocked the front door. He was talking casually about nothing in particular and Ryan laughed in response without really hearing the words. Shane’s house was simply ordered, a single hallway down the center with a living room and open kitchen to the left, and the closed-off office to the right. Two bedrooms further down the hall, and a bathroom at the end. Apparently, Shane used the other bedroom to do video work? Editing had always been a hobby of his, something he and Ryan bonded over originally. “I’ve got a foldout couch in there you can use, ” he told him.

They met around the breakfast counter and Shane poured him a glass of something. Ryan frowned. “I don’t think you should drink if you have a concussion.”

“I’m going to have a headache tomorrow either way,” Shane answered.

“Wh- no, Shane, Jesus-”

Shane took a sip and gave him a put on look. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You drink. You’re all shaky still.”

Ryan wanted to tell him he was  _ not _ shaky, thank you very much. Instead, he picked up the glass and did so. Surprised, he took another sip. “This is… really good.”

“Gift from a friend,” Shane hummed, sitting down on the tall chairs. His feet still touched the ground, and Ryan realized a moment later, his own did not.

“You have friends?”

Shane rolled his eyes, amused, and then winced. He could brush it off all he liked, but his head was definitely hurting him. “Got me there. A client, then. Lilly Keller.”

Ryan choked on the wine.

“Wait. Like, _the_ Lilly Keller?” Lilly Keller, the famous actress, winner of multiple oscars at the young age of twenty-three. Lilly Keller, America’s newest heartthrob. Ryan’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t just- Frick, dude, you’r _e Lilly Keller’s_ psychic?”  
Shane gave him a cheeky grin. “She’s a sweet girl. You can come with me to a session if you like.”

“ _ If I like? _ Who else do you know? Do you know Leonardo Dicaprio? Please say you-”

“She’s the only celebrity, don’t get too excited!”

Ryan was about to reply when headlights shot through the room from the front window. They were inordinately bright, especially since he and Shane hadn’t turned on more lights than the small one over the stove. The car faced them, unmoving. The headlights flipped on and off and on again with deliberation.

Ryan held up a hand to squint at it. “What the hell?”

Shane didn’t say anything.

“Shane?”

Ryan looked at him. Shane was stiff, his face blank. He set the glass down with a clink on the counter. “...shit…”

Ryan’s breath caught. “Is something wrong?”

Shane raised his eyebrows, meeting his eyes suddenly. “Naw. Just something I’ve gotta do. You wait in here.” Without another word, Shane crossed the kitchen and opened the door of his office. Ryan stayed at the counter, too shocked to do anything but obey.

Maybe this really  _ was _ a bad idea.

Shane cursed in the dark of his office as he pushed aside a few books on his bookshelf to reveal the safe hidden behind. He opened the dial quickly. Inside lay a pile of jewelry, some watches, other important documents, and piles of cash. It wasn’t all his technically. He got rent from several other psychics around the area and then delivered a portion of his and theirs to the person above him.

Shane counted the bills, fumbling. His head pounded like it was shrinking around his brain. There was no way he was going to get around avoiding explaining this to Ryan. With a sigh, he straightened, closed the safe, and walked to the front door. Ryan met his gaze and his eyes widened when he saw the money in Shane’s hand. Shane didn’t have anything to put it in or else he would have. Shane didn’t respond. He already knew Ryan was scared. It was bleeding off him like sweet sick. Fear and disappointment.

Shane had a knife in his back pocket just in case as he walked down his sidewalk. It was wet from the sprinklers. Just at the end of the driveway sat a black, shiny car, windows thick.

The moment he saw it, his headache pulsed worse. But he relaxed. His shoulders dropped and he picked up his pace. Thank God…

The window rolled down as he got closer.

“Good evening, Jack.”

Jack, a black-haired kid with a pointy nose and bruised eyes, leaned into the streetlight so he was visible. “How’d you know it was me?”

Shane handed him the cash. “The way you park? I dunno. Wasn’t expecting you tonight. I thought you guys weren’t coming till the twentieth? Where’s Hera?”

“She’s at a party. Apparently she has some big meeting in the twentieth. She told me to come collect early.”

“Well, you’re lucky I had extra meetings this week.”

“ _ You’re  _ lucky.”

Shane wasn’t scared of Jack. He wasn’t a bad kid, all things considered. It wasn’t his fault his family was batshit crazy. Shane smiled and drummed his fingers on the top of the car. “Well, tell Hera I said hello.”

“Will do.” Jack turned the car back on, putting the money on the passenger seat. He nodded toward Shane’s head. “Someone get ya?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. Car accident earlier today.”

“Aw, that sucks. They give you morphine?”  
Shane blinked at him. “A little. Gave me crazy dreams.”

The kid grinned a wide, toothy smile. One of his teeth was gold. “Nice. Thanks, bitch. See ya. Hera said she wants you to start taking in the money yourself or she’ll kick your ass.”

Shane opened his mouth to protest. Then he shut it. He managed something like a smile. “Fine. Stay safe, Jack.”

“Whatever, voodoo man.” With that, Jack rolled up the window and slunk the car down the street.

Shane hesitated in his front yard. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was... so tired.

And Ryan was peeking through the blinds. Of course, he was.

Shane turned around and met Ryan’s eyes immediately, startling the man into dropping the blinds and disappearing. It would be funny in other circumstances. Suddenly, he didn’t want to stay up and drink with his friend anymore. His headache was only getting worse and Ryan was worry pacing in his living room like an anxious cat.

Shane made it back to the kitchen. He rubbed the back of his neck. His body ached. The pain medication must have been wearing off. “Well, you wanted to know what it's like being a psychic in LA...” He laughed.

Ryan stood stiff, his hands trembling. “Who was that?”  
Shane ignored the question. “My head is killing me. Can we… I'm sorry, can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Ryan wavered. “Are you in danger?”

Shane waved the question away in dismissal. “Naw, calm down. My boss likes me.” He knew Ryan was brimming with questions, but they had a whole two months at least to get answers to them, and Shane was having a hard time focusing now. He walked out, down the hallway. “I set out the blankets and pillows on the bed in there.”

Ryan didn’t have a choice really, but he relented and followed. “... Okay. We’ll talk tomorrow?”

Shane turned at his door. “Duh? Night, Ryan.”

“... night.”

Shane put the door between them as quickly as he could. He was being totally unfair, but he really didn’t have the energy to explain. He sat down on his bed, took his shoes off, and then lay flat on the covers for a minute, thinking he’d get up and change any second. His body was heavy, and he was very aware for no reason in particular that he was a creature inside it.

Shane sat in the passenger seat as the car whizzed the highway. The radio played Miley Cyrus’s ‘The Climb’. Shane turned his head. He recognized the feeling, the thickness of the air like moving through dough. In the driver seat, Jack sang not-so-well, but earnestly, as he drummed his hands on the wheel. The sight made Shane smile. Jack wouldn’t be caught dead listening to something like this.

Shane stood in a bookshop, looking up at the reflection of a book on the inside of a display.  **ǝɿiH ɿoꟻ ɔiʜɔγƨꟼ.** A dark-haired man passed by.

Rapid images passed his eyes. A girl cried in her bathroom, a man and a woman fought in a kitchen. A plate broke. The images passed faster and faster until he couldn’t distinguish them. Everything was too quick, too much information all at once. His stomach began to ache. 

Then he was laying on cold marble tiles. Heels clicked past his ear. Above him, marble arches stretched into a dome centered by a massive chandelier that shone like the damn sun. He tried to sit up and managed to turn his head instead. Gravity was too heavy. A familiar woman opened the front door. She wore a mink fur shawl over a nightgown, clearly heading toward the bed. “Jack. you look like shite, honey, why doesn’t your mama dress you properly.”

“Got the money, auntie.”

A pause. “Excuse me?”

Jack stepped back. Shane could see his sneakers. “I have the money, auntie Hera, Ma’am.”

He gave it to her and she hummed. “You told him to come here?”

Jack nodded.

“It’s about time we initiated that dry ass fucker… I’ve never seen a more well-behaved pet.” She leaned forward and pulled Jack down so she could kiss him on the cheek.

“Aw, ugk, auntie- auntie, he’s paying fine, I don't see why you’ve gotta-”

She grabbed his cheek, a little rougher than she ought to have. “How about you run along and let the adults do the thinking, Jackie dear. Have a goodnight, tell your mama she’s a whore.”

“Okay, auntie.”

Shane was listening so closely, he almost didn’t notice until it was too late. The stone crept around his legs and up to his body. He screamed as he fell into the marble.

He was surrounded by concrete. He couldn’t breathe. Coldwater rushed at his back. Suddenly he dropped into water, tumbling, slamming into walls. It was  _ so cold.  _ He gasped and flailed and-

Jumped up out of sweat-soaked sheets.

Shane choked on nothing, shivering, breathing rapidly. His whole body hurt. He was battered and bleeding and-

No, no he wasn’t.  _ What kind of nightmare… _

Shane scrubbed his face and hissed in pain at the cut over his eye. Sunlight streamed in from the window. A few moments passed, and his heartbeat slowed.

The door rattled. Ryan poked his head in, hair tousled. “Yo, you want eggs?”

Yes, he did.

Man, concussions sure were weird.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear what you think, and reading them is honestly a highlight of my day!


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